


The Enticement (Detective!England x OC)

by Gundii



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Detective England, F/M, Fanfiction, Historical Hetalia, Murder Mystery, Tsundere England (Hetalia)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-16 11:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gundii/pseuds/Gundii
Summary: Elizabeth Willshire is constantly bullied by her colleague Arthur Kirkland, the renowned London-based detective some say can solve any mystery. While aspiring to be a detective herself, she and Mr. Kirkland solve numerous cases together, dodging dangers and death along the way.One night while working on a case, however, things turn for the worst when Ms. Willshire becomes the next target for an infamous serial killer.





	1. The Second Helping

__ 1935\. London. _ _

Inspector Arthur Kirkland and I traveled hastily through the night en route to the crime scene. I confess, my mood at the time was… how should I say it? Sour, I suppose, since my plans were ruined due to a criminal who had the brilliant idea of committing a murder on the eve of New Year's, just a few hours before the clock would strike twelve. I was attending an extravagant banquet with rows and rows of lamb, yorkshire pudding, roast beef, bangers and mash, pastries, and other delicious dishes as far as the eye could see and I must say… parting with it was difficult to do.

“Chin up, Liz. You will have more opportunities to cram your face with food in the future,” Mr. Kirkland muttered, annoyed with my mood. Looking through the cabbie's windows, his lazy eyes observed the snow calmly falling to the ground, lightly dusting the stone roads and buildings around us.

I shot him a dirty scowl and of course he didn’t notice.

When I first began my job as his assistant, I thought I was fortunate to work with a well-known,  _ and awfully handsome I might add _ , detective who solved the infamous locked-room murder of 1929 as well as the burglary of the royal crown jewels, all in the time span of one day. But I was naive. Though brilliant,  _ and again, wickedly handsome _ , he was a jerk and treated me like a nuisance, claiming I would simply get in his way.

Apparently, as I’ve heard from my superiors, he was assigned an assistant because not only were they interested on how his mind works, they wanted someone they could trust to keep tabs on him, since he was known to… misbehave sometimes. In short, I was not assigned his assistant for assistant reasons but for babysitting reasons. He really didn't need my aid, but I always tried my best to help with the cases since it ’ s my dream to become a detective.

With a sudden jolt, our short, but uncomfortable journey came to a complete stop. Peering through the windows of the cab, I would see that we have indeed arrived at our destination: a woman’s boutique.

Mr. Kirkland was the first to exit the car and I quickly followed… until he slammed the door in my face.

“You bastard!” I shouted, waving my fist in the air. I swore at that moment he was going to regret treating me like rubbish one day.

~

After entering the boutique, I was immediately struck with the undeniable scent of blood. Turning my Edwardian style hat upwards, I received a better view of the crime scene.

Numerous platforms topped with mannequins dressed with in-style dresses and coats littered the store. On the walls hung even more articles of clothing, as well as accessories such as scarves, gloves, and extraordinarily adorable hats. One particular hat caught my eye and I made a mental note then that I had to return to browse when the turmoil was all over.

As I walked further into the boutique, passing police officers and witnesses in question, I finally arrived where the murder took place. Mr. Kirkland was already there, talking to another police officer, getting filled in with the details.

“So it seems none of the witnesses caught a glimpse of the perpetrator… Figures…” Mr. Kirkland muttered after he turned to me when I arrived. He frowned and his lips pursed, seemingly unpleased at the extent of the witnesses’ help. Reaching into his deep coat pockets, he pulled out a pipe as well as a match to begin his process of investigating, something I’ve noticed him do over the past few cases. He began smoking it as usual.

“Never the matter, however.” He continued, turning back to the crime scene. “I’ll get this case solved soon enough. Get ready to do… whatever you usually do, Elizabeth.”

“Yes sir,” I nonchalantly replied.

I followed Mr. Kirkland to a receive better view of the body the murderer left behind, and I must say... It was one of the most gruesome scenes I’ve seen to date. I swallowed to keep an odd feeling from crawling up my throat. Those lifeless eyes were probably going to give me nightmares for days.

The victim was a young woman, a few years older than I based on the soft facial features as well as her body shape. Her body, sprawled behind the counter that had a cash register placed on top of it, had a generous amount of blood below her, possibly making the cause of death by blood loss. I reached into my coat pocket to pull out my small journal as well as a pen to begin taking notes.

Mr. Kirkland squatted next to the body, careful not to contaminate the evidence and took out a pen, poking the victim's head, turning it to one side.

“Cause of death: blunt force trauma to the head,” he announced moments later.

I hastily crossed out  _ blood loss _ as a cause of death in my journal, face slightly turning red. Turning my attention back to the body, I investigated for more clues, secretly hoping to find a clue before the jerkface did.

Then it hit me. If the cause of death was by a blow to head, why was there an abundant amount of blood below the torso? I smiled in triumph, completing my goal sooner than I expected.

“Mr. Kirkland, I there’s a possibility tha-”

“ _ Yes _ , I know you think you might have  _ in the slightest _ have an idea of how the victim died but please, do us all a favor and shut up before you cause everyone in the entire room to lose their intelligence,” he quickly snapped without looking at me, turning the victim’s body with two, now gloved hands, seemingly already knowing what I was going to speak about.

I immediately frowned.

_ Just let me do my job!  _ All I wanted to do was become a well-renowned detective but he was seriously making that dream difficult. Each case I’ve worked on with him crumbles my motivation and I could already  _ feel _ my limit approaching. I was nearing my wits end with this guy.

Mr. Kirkland had at that time, completely turned the body over, revealing a broad and painful stab wound on the back of the body, confirming my suspicions on where the generous amount of blood came from. One eyebrow lifted and he leaned in a bit closer, inspecting the stab wound in more detail.

“The victim was facing the perpetrator at first contact,” he announced, eyes still glued to the wound. “First, the perpetrator reached around the victim with a sharp object, stabbed the victim in the back at an angle, then finished her off with a blow to the head.”

I jotted the information down into my journal when it hit me. This seemed eerily similar to another case a few months back, in the middle of October if I recall correctly. An injury to the head and a stab wound to the back were both present in that case as well as this one. Could they somehow be connected?

I zipped my mouth shut this time, however, not wanting to be humiliated again by the devilishly rude man.

Mr. Kirkland eventually inspected the body entirely and I jotted a few more notes after that. In the end, we didn’t find any clues on the body but we still had to investigate the surrounding scene.

Nodding in satisfaction, I was convinced we did our best in this particular area. I suddenly stood up and turned to begin walking to the next clue discovered by the police officers upon their arrival but I was instantly hit with a hard wall of fabric.

“Ooof!” I pouted upon impact.

Looking up, I realized that I accidentally ran into one of the police officers patrolling the area, doing… whatever police duties they usually do at crime scenes.

“My-My apologies!” I exclaimed as I rubbed my now throbbing nose. I must have run into his chest with some speed...

“No need to apologize, lass. Mishaps happen all the time!” his soft voice replied with a gleaming smile on his face. Wearing a hat tilted a little more forward than how it's usually to be worn, I didn’t get a good look at his face but I could tell that he was indeed sincerely sympathetic.

“Idiot…” an irritated voice muttered behind me. “What’s the point in keeping you if you don’t have the ability to see?”

I opened my mouth, ready to fire a barrage of insults at the crude swine that acted as my partner, but I snapped it shut, deciding it wasn’t worth it. Turning around, I saw Mr. Kirkland had a sickly smug smirk as he tossed his soiled gloves to the side. It was almost as if he already picked up on my pattern of defeat.

“Let’s move on, nitwit” he called, leaving me behind as I still stood next to the victim’s body. I looked at the body one more time, inspecting it for anymore possible clues. But once my eyes met the victim’s lifeless ones, I felt my skin crawl and I took that as my cue to get out of there.

Following Mr. Kirkland, we arrived at a clue that may have revealed how the perpetrator entered the premises. Since the boutique was closed at the time, the perpetrator must have entered through a back entry way while the victim was still inside. Mr. Kirkland found it almost immediately and it was quite obvious the perpetrator squeezed through a broken window at the back of the store, ripped fabric still stuck on the pieces of glass.

The sound of glass breaking must have caught the attention of the victim and when she was just about to leave to investigate, she was met face-to-face to with her murderer, completely defenseless and no time to react. What an unfortunate way to die…

We followed the path back to where the perpetrator took to engage his victim, looking for any additional clues they could have left along the way, and eventually we ended up back where the body was found. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a red smudge on the floor almost hidden from sight by the shadows of the counter.

Excitedly, I bent down for a better look, readying my journal to write down anything interesting about it. It seemed to be… a portion of a shoeprint that consisted of blood…

But that must mean the perpetrator was here longer than we thought. To step in that much blood, the perpetrator must have stayed with the victim far too long. But why…?

I called out to Mr. Kirkland, and after grabbing his attention and explaining my deductions to him, he patted my head and gave me a rewarding smile.

“I’m astonished, Ms. Willshire.” His tone was too fake to be taken seriously. “It’s quite possible my brilliance is rubbing off on you!”

I rolled my eyes, not taking his superficial compliment seriously and peered down to the footprint and back to the body, still wondering why the perpetrator would stay with the victim for so long. Usually, after committing a murder, most criminals would hightail out of the crime scene, but not this one... What was he doing?

I stood up and headed straight for the cash register. The perpetrator had enough time to sweep and pocket the money, making greed a possible motive, but after opening it, my suspicions were proved to be false, wads of cash still stacked inside.

I let out a small groan. If it wasn't for money, why did the perpetrator stay?

I looked at Mr. Kirkland for help but he seemed to also be deep in thought, brows furrowing in a concentrated manner.

Smugly, I smirked. It seems even the greatest detective in all of England can get stumped once in awhile… huh?

This time I turned to the body once more, avoiding catching a glimpse of those lifeless eyes that creeped me out so much. I had this strong urge that we were missing something. Something that tied the footprint and the timing of the escape of the perpetrator together. Something so important that revealed the perpetrator’s true intentions. But what was it?

I gasped.

It was the placement of the body!

If the perpetrator walked in, came face to face with the victim, stabbed her in the back, then finished her off with a blow to the back head, why was she facing upwards?

The perpetrator was doing something with the victim before finally finishing her off… and it all happened here.

Mr. Kirkland, seemingly catching on to my silent revelations, approached to where I was kneeling and kneeled next to me, wanting to see what I had just discovered.

“It's the placement of the body, Mr. Kirkland.” I began, gesturing to the body. “If the perpetrator walked in, reached around her to stab her in the back, then turned her around to finish her off with a blow to the head, why is she facing upwards when she should be facing downwards?”

Mr. Kirkland, holding his pipe in his hand, took a brief moment to digest the information. Through the pipe, he inhaled a good rush of smoke from the tobacco and exhaled, a cloud of smoke appearing and disappearing after a slow dance in the cold air.

His sharp jawline clenched once he arrived at his answer.

Curiously, I watched as he reached out to the victim’s body… but my heart immediately dropped once I saw what he was grasping for.

Lifting up the victim's dress, Mr. Kirkland revealed a sight I don’t ever want to put into words.

Tears immediately formed at the corners of my eyes, so I turned away, hiding it from Mr. Kirkland. I swallowed, attempting to get rid of the returning feeling of a tight throat and stood up, not wanting to look at the body again.

Something was shoved into my hands moments after. Looking down at them, I saw it was a handkerchief, Mr. Kirkland’s handkerchief.

“No, no, no, I can’t accept this…” I began, but he lifted a hand, signaling me to stop.

“You can keep it,” he muttered without looking at me.  _ “You already touched it anyways...” _

Through a blurry, wet vision, I smiled at him, ignoring the last unnecessary comment he made. Dabbling the sides of my eyes, I dried my tears and my vision eventually returned to normal.

Though Mr. Kirkland is a jerk… I guess he can rarely show his gentlemanly side.

_ Emphasis on the rarely. _

I scribbled down my final notes in my journal and closed it with a loud  _ clap _ , officially ending my work at the crime scene. I watched Mr. Kirkland’s back as he stepped away for a moment, speaking our findings to another detective on the scene.

Assuming we were really finished with our work here, I checked my watch, noting the time. It read  _ 11:27 _ , which meant it was almost time for the new year to come around. Though we did have time to return to the party, it was no doubt too late for me to return to my delicious feast…

But if I was going to be honest with myself, I don’t think I would’ve eaten a single bite. Not after seeing a scene like this.

I sighed, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over me. I wanted to return home and sleep…

I placed my pen, journal, and my newly acquired handkerchief into my winter coat pocket.

_ CRUNCH _

Hm…?

I reached into my pocket, curious what could be inside it. I usually cleared my pockets of trash and debris, having a good habit of being tidy, so it must be something I put in there recently.

It was a small piece of paper... with handwriting I didn’t recognize.

It read:

_ Ms. Elizabeth Willshire, _

_ You look ravishing tonight. _

_ Stop this investigation or it’s quite possible I’ll have a second helping soon. _

I first wrote it off as a senseless prank, but after reading it over and over again I quickly took it seriously.

Then I began to recall the recent events.

Mr. Kirkland and I just discovered the true fate of the victim moments ago… so other than the perpetrator, we were the only ones who should know about it…

And I had my coat cleaned earlier today so there was nothing in my pockets before I entered the crime scene…

Which must mean the perpetrator was here.

With me.

Mere _ centimeters _ from me.

My world began to spin as fast as the earth was spinning on its axis. My vision blurred, worse than before. I couldn’t see. Blobs of color filling my vision. Heart rate increasing, my breathing quickly became ragged, my hands were trembling.

Then my legs began to tremble. I stumbled and hit a wall… or was it the floor? My disoriented mind couldn’t keep up with my actions. I was a mess, I didn’t even notice when I touched the cold pool of blood on the floor.

But once I caught a glimpse of those cold, lifeless, eyes…

I lost it. I screamed.

And that was all I could remember.

~

Mr. Kirkland’s conversation with Inspector Triton was cut short once they heard a blood curdling scream pierce the room. Immediately knowing whose voice it belonged to, he dashed across the room, past gawking and onlooking witnesses and police officers to where he last left Ms. Elizabeth Willshire.

“Elizabeth!” he shouted.

A few strides finally led him to her and there he found the young woman, curled up into the corner next to the body, slightly covered in the victim’s blood. At first, he was displeased at the state of the crime scene, evidence being soiled and tampered with, but upon further inspection, he realized that it was done unintentionally by the young woman.

Her eyes frantically scanned the area around her, then at the numerous police officers arriving at the scene, curious of what the commotion was about.

Kicking her legs away from them, she scampered further into the corner of the small area, inching away from something she deeply feared. But what was it?

“Ms. Willshire, what’s the matter?” Mr. Kirkland questioned, stepping towards the frightened young woman.

Her eyes immediately darted to the young man, body shaking violently the sight of the new intruder.

“You…!” She snapped, pointing a shaking finger at the man, tears now flowing down her face. “You stay away from me! All of you!”

There, in her hand, something caught the attention of Mr. Arthur Kirkland. It appeared to be a crumpled piece of paper, partially soaked with blood.

Ignoring her pleas, he stepped towards her, kneeling down to fetch said paper. Prying it out of her clenching hand, he didn’t waste a single moment to examine it.  

His face paled once he read its contents.

“Lock the doors!” he immediately shouted. “ _ No one shall leave the premises! _ ”


	2. Begonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are no immediate results in regards to the investigation, proving that this could be a bigger mystery than it initially seems. Cold, tired, and afraid of what may come, Elizabeth Willshire wonders if she will be safe now that an evasive and clever serial killer made her the next target. Can Arthur Kirkland find a way to keep her free from harm?

Throughout my entire career of being Arthur Kirkland’s assistant at Scotland Yard, I’ve come across some of the most gruesome, unimaginable, and ingenious murder cases to ever exist but I never thought I would be directly involved with one of them.

I’d quickly come to realize there’s more to the concept of an investigation. It was much more complicated than that. Much more. There lied two completely different worlds, almost like two sides of a coin: one world in which the detectives tread, always looking into the aftermath of crimes, catastrophes, and murders. Then, on the other side of the coin, was the darker world of the victims, who had to witness and live through the nightmares first hand. The investigators and the investigated.

No longer was I protected by the safe label of being the detective, because now I was thrown into the darker world of being the victim, a world I thought never existed. You’d think after working as a detective’s assistant for a year, viewing murder case after murder case, I would grasp and fully realize the importance of each situation… but it wasn’t until I became exposed to the somber world that I would truly feel the gravity of being a victim.

It was half past midnight, the new year already upon us. Despite the turning of the new year, the dimly lit streets were cold and damp, barren of any life, signs of any recent celebrations nonexistent.

The buildings around us, however, were full of light and movement. Windows filled with prying eyes, curious of the bustling scene below. My skin crawled at the idea of being watched.

“Feeling better, Liz?” Mr. Kirkland questioned after he took the tobacco pipe from his mouth, blowing smoke into the chillingly cold winter air. He leaned against the side of one of the police cars parked across the street from the crime scene, standing near me as I was seated in the backseat. All the doors of the car were closed and locked but one, but it was well guarded by Mr. Kirkland. It was the best form of protection he could offer at the moment.

“I’m fine…” I calmly lied.

I felt fuzzy, dazed, and disoriented. My head throbbed and pounded with waves of pain, disappearing softly but only to come back with an abrupt crash. I leaned forward in my seat, rubbing my head to calm the ache, hoping to at least take control of one aspect of my life at the moment.

Thoughts of sleeping seemed tempting. Freedom from the ordeal was exactly what I needed but it wouldn’t let me fully escape the waking nightmare I had to now live through. Was it even safe to sleep? More importantly, was it even possible for me to sleep?

I took a deep breath, attempting to calm the rising emotions in me.

Mr. Kirkland was a smart man. By his body language, I could tell he didn’t believe my lie for a single moment. From the corner of my eye, I noticed his head was facing me, scanning my features for the true answer. He sighed but didn’t say anything, putting the pipe back to his mouth and taking a huff afterward.

What would I say if I had to comfort someone whose life was in danger? Would I tell them they’ll be protected? Would I tell them everything was going to be alright? Would that be considered lying, since I wouldn’t know what the future actually has in store? The more I lived in the world of the victim, the less I understood the perspective of the detective. It was becoming more foreign to me by the second.

We both remained quiet, listening to the bustling of the crime scene in the distance.

Moments later, I heard approaching footsteps breaking the silence. Immediately looking up, I saw familiar blue newsboy hat stepping into the perimeter, brown hair glistening underneath in the light emitting from the streetlamp that shone above the scene. A long brown coat flapping in the soft wind as it followed.

Inspector Triton fully appeared in my view with a warm smile on his face, both hands in his pockets to protect himself from the bitterness of the cold.

“How are you feeling, m’ dear?” he questioned as he eyed me, eyebrows scrunched together and blue eyes filled with concern.

Luke Triton was a fellow detective like Arthur Kirkland but not as known and accomplished in comparison. In fact, Arthur Kirkland outshone him in almost every aspect possible, all but one. Luke Triton was much more approachable than the condescending detective. Despite their differences, however, Luke Triton was the closest “friend” Arthur had and the two made a good team when the opportunity arose.

On top of that, one additional aspect that Luke Triton had over Mr. Kirkland was that he was much more courteous to me. Before I became the next target for a serial killer, before I became Arthur Kirkland’s assistant, I lived the quiet life of a secretary at Scotland Yard, running the front desk. Being the observant man he was, he noticed me on my first day working at the job and stopped to chat with me, offering me tea, and somehow, we began meeting every day then on. On some days, when my workload was becoming overbearing, he would stop to help without me asking, and on other days, I would offer him advice on cases he had issues on.

Coincidentally, through our daily rendezvous, we became good colleagues. Eventually, I revealed to him my dream of becoming a detective just like him and he revealed to me he earnestly enjoyed my company.

“Is your head feeling better?” he inquired.

“I… Yes.” I stammered after some hesitation, realizing I momentarily forgot about the agonizing pain.

Mr. Kirkland turned his head away, shifting his stance as he puffed another take of smoke from the pipe he held in his crossed arms. Looking away from us, he decided to instead watch the bustling of the crime scene in the distance, observing some of the viewable policemen scurry, recording all traces of evidence and clues around the vicinity.

“I wouldn't worry too much about the case, Ms. Wilshire,” Luke continued. “I’m sure Kirkland here will solve this case in no time now that he’s involved.” He turned his head towards the said man, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Isn’t that right?” he said, almost cooing in a teasing way.

A thick eyebrow on Mr. Kirkland’s forehead lifted before he turned to look at his colleague, ripping his eyes away from the crime scene he studied in silence. “... You’re... not wrong,” he muttered as he stared at Luke, wondering why the man dragged him into the conversation in such a strange way.

It was indeed strange. From what I’ve seen, their usual conversations consisted of straightforward and short exchanges, and nothing more. No jokes, no small talk, and no dialogue riddled with hidden messages. Not once had he talked to him in such a sly tone. However, though it seemed Mr. Kirkland wondered what Luke implied with that peculiar tone, he reluctantly shrugged it off and inquired him about more important matters at hand.

“No sign of the culprit?” Mr. Kirkland asked, voicing his assumptions after noticing that Luke didn’t share the status of the investigation immediately upon his arrival.

“...Twelve policemen and four witnesses all interviewed, and in the end, nothing,” Luke answered solemnly after a brief moment of silence. “No information on how Ms. Willshire received the note nor where the culprit could be,” he continued as he shot me a look from the corner of his eye, keeping me in his sights now that he mentioned me.

“Typical.” He muttered, lips at a slight pout. Mr. Kirkland didn’t bother showing how displeased he was at the outcome, probably thinking if he wasn’t tasked with babysitting me while the investigation was going on, he would have changed the results in some way that would miraculously fit him. Typical for the young man.

“What are your plans for Ms. Willshire?” Luke asked, changing the subject.

“... Why are you asking?” questioned Mr. Kirkland with a hint of annoyance.

“Curious.” Another odd look from the man.

“... Locking her in her flat, or... something.” he flatly answered. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me?” This time I piped in, butting into the conversation. “Did you just say ‘It doesn’t matter?’”

Mr. Kirkland scoffed the moment he heard my voice, annoyed that I now was involved in the conversation. “There’s no reason to worry now that I’m on the case. I’ll get it solved soon enough, Liz,” he muttered before taking a long drag from his pipe.

“That’s absolutely absurd! You don’t really expect me to lock me up like some kind of animal.”

“Bloody hell, don’t throw a paddy over this. It won’t be for long. A couple of days at most.”

“Why don’t I leave London then? I’ll return the moment you and your tosser arse solved this whole damned thing.”

“No, we can’t risk you leading the culprit out of the city, you nitwit. We don’t know who we’re dealing with and how dedicated he or she is to this facade.”

“Mr. Kirkland, really! I’ll be a sitting duck. I could be killed if I stay here!”

“Not with protection you won’t.”

Cutting me off of a reply, Mr. Kirkland turned his head away and towards Luke Triton, who from what I could see, now had a mildly amused expression on his face. He always enjoyed watching our quarrels. “Mr. Triton,” Mr. Kirkland continued, grabbing the attention of the other detective in the vicinity, “Arrange for a couple of officers to be stationed at Liz’s residence at once.”

Luke Triton looked at me, then cautiously back at Mr. Kirkland. Moments passed before he reluctantly came to a conclusion, carefully shooting me an apologetic look before nodding and replying with a curt, “I’ll choose my most trusted men.”

As mentioned before, Luke Triton and I had been colleagues for quite an amount of time, ever since I had joined the ranks of Scotland Yard. I’d say I knew Luke Triton pretty well, but his answer surprised me. The look on his face revealed he obviously knew how unhappy I was at Mr. Kirkland, at the situation, but for some reason, he didn't object.

I opened my mouth to ask why he wasn’t sticking up for me, but I shut it. Realizing he agreed with Mr. Kirkland made me frown, even more, an expression I wasn’t aware of wearing until now. “Better safe than sorry…” he continued.

I exaggeratedly rolled my eyes, admitting defeat.

Of course. It always had to be Mr. Kirkland’s way, always. With such a well-known reputation and superior role behind him, who could challenge him? He would always do what he wanted. I wouldn’t blame Mr. Triton, however. Disagreeing with Mr. Kirkland was a hassle, as I’ve already come to know.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Kirkland,” I spat; the taste of defeat was sour in my mouth. I threw a glare at him but I could already see it had absolutely no effect on him. His expression remained still, unamused eyes looking down at me, a thin straight line for lips.

“You instead should constantly be asking that to yourself,” Mr. Kirkland dryly replied.

I almost climbed out of the back seat of the car to slap the man. Almost. Instead, my nails dug deeper into the car’s upholstery, anchoring me to the seat and holding me back from attacking the prick of a detective. Tightly clenching my jaw, I took a deep breath through my nose, attempting to calm all my racing nerves. I was at my limits with this man. I didn’t know how much longer I can go through with it.

It didn't take much for Luke Triton to quickly pick up on the hostile environment, amusement completely gone. Soon after, he began saying his goodbyes. “I’ll return once I’ve found your rozzers, Kirkland,” he declared.

“Thank you,” muttered Mr. Kirkland.

Then Luke Triton looked at me, his smile disappearing. “Just relax, Ms. Willshire. Everything is going to be just fine.” He took a step closer, reached out a hand and ruffled the wavy locks of hair on my head, leaving my appearance skewed.

“I hope so,” I replied in a quiet voice, energy suddenly being drained from me. “But thank you, Mr. Triton.” I tried giving him a convincing smile but he saw through it as if it were glass.

He lingered for a moment, a brief moment. For a split second, his eyes conveyed an unrecognizable emotion. I wasn’t entirely sure and wanted to know more, but I was too mentally exhausted to delve into it further.

However, he eventually found resolve. After a quick nod, he turned and began hastily traveling to the crime scene in the distance.

I refused to look at Arthur Kirkland who continued to smoke his tobacco pipe in silence. From the corner of my eye, he was turned away from me yet again, only slightly this time, but I could barely see it. That smug smile on his face. Practically beaming, he was.

“...What are you smiling for? It’s creepy.”

“He clearly fancies you,” Mr. Kirkland teased, smile widening. “You must be blind not to see that.”

“I doubt that… and as if you know a thing or two about human emotions,” I sighed, eyes beginning to droop, vision beginning to unfocus.

“Are you implying I’m inhuman?”

I refused to answer him, letting him figure the answer himself. I was too tired to spend any more energy on him anyways. Sighing, I closed my eyes and fell back into my seat, allowing myself to indulge in a brief moment of relaxation.

Usually, I would never show Mr. Kirkland a vulnerable side of me, always trying to reduce myself from any situations where he can mock or offend me in any way. Knowing my dream of becoming London’s first woman detective was possible and in-reach, I would always try to hold myself to the highest standards. However, after being berated with insult after insult by the likes of the man in the presence of so many people, I realized that I pretty much can’t go any lower than this, not to mention I became a target of a serial killer.

Bunding myself in my coat and nuzzling my head in the scarf wrapped around my neck, I eventually became fuzzy and warm, protected from the bitter and harsh cold. I was in a warm cocoon, still and comfortable slowly fading into a sweet and much-needed sleep.

 

~

 

After hearing the familiar chimes of Big Ben striking one o’clock in the morning, my eyes fluttered open, introducing me to the new scenery before me. It was dark, but with the low growl of a car engine and the changing scenery through the open window, I could tell that I was back on the streets of London, making my way to an unknown destination. The air was still extremely cold, snow still in the process of dusting the setting around me, so I bundled myself together, attempting to get rid of the goosebumps that covered my body.

“Your head is abnormally heavy, Ms. Willshire.”

Instantly waking up, my heart leaped out of my chest and I jumped in my seat, startled by the sudden unknown voice. I was more surprised than curious to know who had the audacity to insult me so, it being very much uncalled for. Looking to the source of the voice, I found my answer.

Mr. Arthur Kirkland. Of course. Why am I not even the slightest bit surprised?

“It's quite astonishing,” he continued, rubbing his shoulder through the thickness of the dark brown coat he usually wore, “... since you’re such an air-head.” After briefly rolling his shoulder, he adjusted himself, putting a small amount of distance between us in the carriage.

I refused to grace him with a reply.

Sighing, I fell back into the seat, relaxing my racing nerves. It didn’t take me long to figure my rest had been brief. Since it was about one o’clock in the morning, I approximated I had been sleeping for about twenty minutes, which could easily explain why waves of tiredness had already begun creeping upon me, slowly pulling me back into the depths of slumber. I shook my head, refusing to let myself rest any longer and stretched my arms, dispelling any remnants of sleep.

The rest of the ride was in silence, and before I knew it, we had arrived at our destination: my flat. Mr. Kirkland was the first one to exit the police car, leaving me alone in the back seat of the car.

I couldn’t deny it. An ominous feeling swelled up inside me as I looked upon my flat building. It had appeared the same as it had always been- windows curtained with lace, swept and tidy entranceway, and a tree covering one of my second-floor windows. It was definitely my home. It screamed of familiarity… but something was completely off about it.

I exited the car, following Mr. Kirkland’s footsteps. The surrounding street was empty, the only movement coming from dead leaves skidding the pavement with the help of the cold bitter wind. At my doorstep, however, was a small group of police officers, three to be exact, excluding Mr. Kirkland who at the time had already begun speaking to the men about arrangements and schedules for their rotations. I took a step forward, making the way to join the men in their conversation and introducing myself to them, but something red in color rolled out of the darkness and across the pathway with a gust of wind, catching my eye.

I bent down to pick it up, and holding it up to the light that emitted from a nearby lamppost, I was able to figure what it was: a bright red flower. Twirling the short stem in my hands, I wondered how it arrived in front of my property. Both of my neighbors enjoyed growing plants in their window sills, so I assumed it must have come from one of them, but after looking at each of their front porches, there was nothing. Empty pots stood where I would usually see bundles and bundles of flowers, a thin layer of snow instead topping them off. Oh, that’s right. It was winter, and flowers don’t usually grow in the winter.

Shrugging, I continued to move forward, flower in hand.

“Liz, these men will watch you for the night,” Mr. Kirkland immediately declared to me once I arrived.

“Oh, well… Hello,” I greeted, adding a slight smile and a wave of my hand. “I’m Elizabeth Willshi-”

“These men are to not enter your home, only guard the premises.” He quickly interjected, cutting me off from my introduction. “Do not open your door unless it is an emergency, understand?”

I sighed, already annoyed at Mr. Kirkland’s rudeness, but nodded, letting him know I understood the arrangements for the night.

But, if I was going to be honest with myself, I was slightly surprised at how much effort Mr. Kirkland put into arranging my protection. Earlier in the night, it seemed he didn’t put much thought in how he was going to handle the situation but seeing him talk to the officers and intricately plan every detail for the night made it seem he actually does somewhat care. I guessed I should put a little more faith in Mr. Kirkland and his plan. Though rude, condescending, aggravating, egotistical, and frustrating to be around, he could have a few good qualities to him so I shouldn’t disregard him completely. He was doing this for my sake anyway.

“Now let’s go, Liz.”

“Go where…?” I questioned, unsure what he was getting at.

“Inside of course. I need to inspect your flat,” he muttered with a sliver of indignation this time.

My eyes followed his hands as he gestured to my front door which was closed and locked shut, waiting for me to open it. I harshly gulped down the panic swelling up at the back of my throat. Furiously shaking my head, I quickly made up an excuse to deter him. Anything to prevent him from entering my apartment.

“Oh, you mustn't come inside Mr. Kirkland,” I began. “My apartment isn’t properly… cleaned.”

Mr. Kirkland, still holding his signature unamused expression on his face, stared right at me and scoffed. “I thought you would say as much,” he said.

Turning around to face my door, he plunged his hand into one of his coat pockets, fishing for an unknown item. “Men, stay here, will you?” he announced with increased volume in his voice, pulling out something shiny and metallic. It was a key, but it strangely looked similarly like my key. Inserting it into the keyhole, he opened the door with a twist of his wrist, giving the man access to my apartment.

Wait.

I darted my hand into my pocket and confirmed my suspicions. “When did you-”

“Let’s go Liz,” he repeated again as he snatched my wrist, pulling me into the dark flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick shoutout to Iridescent_opaleye who sent me a lovely message, encouraging me to continue writing! You helped me realize that "Oh, people actually look at this?" and "Wow, I should really try writing better lmfao."


	3. Confidence

“Your flat is drab, just like you,” Mr. Kirkland immediately observed out loud upon entering my flat. Finger lingering over the light switch I had just flipped, my eyes followed him as he took a couple of steps further into my flat, eyeing the pale-green and white striped wallpaper that covered the walls of the entrance way. His eyes chased the corners of the walls until they reached the ground, and after bending down and leaning towards one of the edges of the perimeter, he collected light, fluffy dust with a swipe of a finger. Holding it up and rubbing it in between his fingers, he grimaced with disgust at the sight of it, his thick eyebrows furrowing and the sides of his mouth pulling downwards.

Many tempting thoughts crossed my mind at that moment. First, I thought about flipping the light switch back off. I had absolutely no objections to walking around in my flat in complete darkness as long as Mr. Kirkland did not have the opportunity to throw many insults at my flat. Second, after realizing what position he was in, I thought about pushing him from behind, hoping to see him satisfyingly face plant directly into the very dusty floor he was apparently so disgusted by. And third, there was always that urge to slap him across the face, but that was always there.

Having a cleverly evasive serial killer list me as his next target was one thing, but having Mr. Kirkland, the world-renowned detective, enter your flat and dissect and judge you from your way of living inside and out was another thing on its own. Don’t get me wrong. I am most definitely afraid for my life, but maybe dying is not so bad compared to being thoroughly humiliated by a man many people look up to and aspire to be. 

We then moved on to the living room. He took a few steps ahead of me, eyes wandering all over the room, and soon I began to wonder what he was going to say. Was he going to talk about how bland it was? To be honest, I never really took the time to fully adorn and decorate the room since I never had the money and time to do so. The room only had a fireplace, one phonograph, two loveseats, a tea table, and a bookshelf shoved in the corner of the room; nothing on the walls except for a window facing the front of my flat. There was also the possibility he was going to talk about how dusty the room was. I rarely had the time to entertain let alone invite guests over to my flat, so I never found any use for the place. I only traveled there to do one thing.

“And what’s this? A whole bookshelf dedicated to romance novels? Read all you want, Liz, but you’re staying single for the rest of your life,” he remarked, delight dripping from his voice. With his  gloved hand, he selected a novel that caught his interests, fingering through the pages in one swift motion afterward. “Based on its condition, it looks like we’ve read this one, three… no, make that four times, I presume. It’s unfortunate you’re still single.”

My breath immediately hitched. I had to admit, it was a low blow hitting me right on the mark. I was never experienced in the art of courting, and though I did have one serious relationship in the past, it was short-lived, most likely due to my lack of competence. The circumstances at the time prevented me from exploring the reasons why the breakup even occurred in the first place. Instead of receiving the answers I needed, I was left with an emotional scar, invisible but a painful and constant reminder of what could have been. I acknowledge that I may seem pitiful, lamenting over a short relationship that happened a few years ago in uni, but I’d like to think I am over it… for the most part at least. Besides, now, as I struggled to become a detective, I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in being in the market for a new romantic companion. 

As Mr. Kirkland walked through my flat, pointing out the obscurities of my apartment, I began to feel hot, sweat beginning to bead my forehead despite it being the middle of winter, and eventually, I figured the flush in my face was starting to become near visible. Mr. Kirkland knew it too. With every snarky or insulting comment he made towards me or my apartment, he would turn around, quickly study my face, and grin even more. It seemed he was doing this for his amusement, and after realizing this obnoxious motive for his behavior, my face became even hotter. 

I knew I said it many times in the past, but this time I did sincerely mean it when I say I was at my limit with this man.

“And take a look at this wardrobe! Kind of wonky, innit? … But I already knew.”

“M-Mr. Kirkland! I will not tolerate this humiliation!”

We both stood in my bedroom, Mr. Kirkland standing in front of my open wardrobe, holding an article of clothing dangling on a hanger while I watched him with glaring eyes, furious at the efforts he was putting into this so-called “investigation”. His eyes, full of amusement, followed me as I stepped towards him, snatched the dress in his hands, and hung it on the rack before slamming the wardrobe shut. He chuckled under his breath.

“Finally getting miffed, are you?”

“Well, yes!”

My eyes studied him, looking for a motive for his actions. Was he really putting enough effort into this investigation? Or was this all a joke to him? One thing's for sure, however. He was very skilled at playing me. Just earlier in the night, it seemed he actually gave a damn about the murderer and my safety, but now it seemed he enjoyed humiliating me more than anything. I wondered if he was still trying to rid me as his assistant. After it appeared he was getting used to my constant presence around him, it was saddening to think all that time working him was all for nothing.

Rolling my eyes at the sound of his abhorrent laughter, I stepped away from him, not standing his antics any longer. I approached my bedroom window, observing the view that overlooks the front of my yard. Below, I could see two of the officers I had been briefly introduced to, dimly illuminated by the streetlamps and the light at the entrance way. Leaning in closer, I picked up bits of their dialogue, and I surmised they conversed about what sounds like a recent rugby game, unhappy at the last winning goal. Postures relaxed and free from any discipline, they proudly bore widened grins, enjoying their moment of reminiscence about the game.

My jaws clenched at the sight of them, tears prickling at the sides of my eyes, threatening to come out. 

How I envied them. How I wished to be in their shoes, to have their job, and to not have a care in the world. While I was in distress over my safety, these men and Mr. Kirkland were completely nonchalant about the situation.  Was I the only one who actually gave a damn about my life? Was I to carry the burdens alone? Seeing them display a breezy attitude flared a revulsion in me.

This sinking feeling was nothing new. Just as I felt it there at that moment, I felt it everywhere I went, with every person I met. It was there during the numerous investigations I went on with Mr. Kirkland. It was there whenever I went to Scotland Yard to run errands. I could even see it reflecting in the eyes of every police officer I conversed with, but I refused to acknowledge it. Every. Single. Time.

I was insignificant in their eyes. They always looked down upon me. Perhaps it was because I was young. Perhaps it was because I am an amateur. But I know for a fact the main reason why they never respected me like they respected Mr. Kirkland was that I was a woman in their field. Plain and simple. 

I sighed, closing my eyes to remove the watery haze from my eyes. 

I looked out my bedroom window once more but with a different purpose in mind. My eyes scanned the street below me, eyes trailing down fences and lamp posts. Then I saw it. Looking out the window in my bedroom, I realized that there was a new way to enter my apartment, hidden in plain sight. Entering my flat was possible from the large tree in the front yard. However, to reach the window, one would have to jump, while also being viewed publicly. However, the likeness was low since there were guards posted around my flat.

“Do you have any sticks, Liz?”

“Sticks? What for?” I asked.

Alarm swept through me once I heard Mr. Kirkland footsteps hit the wooden floor below us, cracking with each step. I slightly turned my head to the side, facing away from his direction as he approached me. Standing next to me, I could see he peered out the window, scanning the view as to see what I had been looking at this whole time, but shrugged it off. I blinked once more to rid my eyes of any remaining water. 

“Though your windows have locks on them, we need sticks or some long object to prevent them from sliding open, five to be exact. Just an additional layer of security,” he continued.

“I’m afraid I don’t…” I reluctantly replied after some thought.

“Hm… Time to improvise then.”

Sweet, sweet relief washed over me once I realized Mr. Kirkland eventually lost interest in nitpicking at my flat and humiliating me now that he focused on the investigation, meaning I could relax for once. As we walked through the entire flat again, looking for any object that could serve as a block to prevent the window opening, he concluded out loud there were seven possible ways to enter my flat. Two doors, one leading to the entrance of my flat and one in the back, three windows on the first floor, and two windows in the second. He mentioned we only needed to focus on the windows since the doors were already going to be patrolled with an officer at each door. As for the third officer, he would be patrolling the grounds around my flat building, looking for any suspicious activity. If someone were to break a window, one of the officers would hear, so an entry in that manner wasn't likely.

One thing that struck me as odd was the number of officers Mr. Kirkland called for. Three was the exact number of officers needed to guard my flat... but how did Mr. Kirkland know? As far as I knew, he had never been to my flat, not once. Not that I would invite him anyways.

Eventually, we settled on using some of the many romance novels Mr. Kirkland humiliated me for to secure the windows. It was embarrassing to hand each book off to Mr. Kirkland as he placed them into the groves of the window, but thankfully he refrained from making any comments. However, he still had that snarky and smug grin on him as he took each book which did, in turn, tick me off. 

After making sure each possible way to enter my flat was accounted for, Mr. Kirkland announced it was time for him to leave and resume the investigation at Scotland Yard. I felt a great urge to smile at the thought of him finally leaving my flat by exiting through the front door, but I held it back knowing Mr. Kirkland would somehow get offended at me showing delight at his departure. 

“Here’s your key, Liz.” he muttered as he held the metallic object out to me. In one quick swoop, I snatched it back from him, still angry he stole it from my sleeping body during the car ride here. I remained silent, refusing to offer him thanks. “Make sure to open the door if it’s an emergency, understand?” He continued, his green eyes watching me from beneath his blonde hair. “I better not receive a call because you decided to sneak out for… what are those American fluffy pastry things smothered in powdered sugar you like to eat called?”

“Beignets, Mr. Kirkland. And I’m not a child. Don’t treat me as one,” I retorted as I glared at him with furrowed brows. 

“Never going to happen, Liz,” he replied almost immediately as if he knew what I was going to say. My frown deepened as I continued to glare at him, and at the sight of this, a toothy grin grew on his face in return. With an extended slender finger, he poked the wrinkled area between my brows with considerable force, pushing my head slightly back. “... as long as you act like a child,” he continued.

With a click of the tongue, I swatted his hand away. “Isn’t it about time you left, Mr. Kirkland?” I asked with a hint of urgency. My hand latched onto the open front door to my flat while he stood in the doorway, ready to close it behind him at any moment. Gusts of chillingly cold air brushed against me as it entered my apartment, corroding my already thin patience. 

Mr. Kirkland scoffed at my forward remark, smile disappearing from his complexion, but to my surprise, he didn’t reply with an insulting remark in return. Instead, his hand reached into his coat pocket, pulling out his tobacco pipe as well as a match, lighting it to begin another round of smoking. “I suppose you’re right,” he sighed, bringing the pipe to his lips and waving the match in the air to rid of the flame. “That case isn’t going to solve itself.” 

Adjusting the iconic brown deerstalker hat Mr. Kirkland could never go without, he turned away from me, facing the dark and damp streets of London. Though it was about two o’clock at night, he still stood tall and proud, no signs of the demanding events of the evening wearing him down. I’d hate to admit it, but this was one of the differences Mr. Kirkland and I had. It was almost af if the man didn’t need sleep or rest at all. He was always occupying himself with his fatuation of the study of crime. He was always determined. Always resilient. He carried himself with an authoritative demeanor. It was such a shame he was a garbage of a man. 

“Have a good evening, Liz,” he finally said as he stepped off my doorstep and into the openness of the winter night. 

I sighed with relief once he was a great distance away. I was about to close the door, ending the nightmare once and for all until I registered what he had said. I froze in place, left speechless as I replayed his words in my head. Not once in my years of knowing him had he ever wished me a good night. It is usual for people to use that greeting, but never Mr. Kirkland. 

This was a different side to him. It was almost as if he was... human?

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Breezy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> I first got the inspiration to write a detective story after watching the first Sherlock Holmes movie in 2009. With my love for Hetalia and Sherlock, I decided to write a Detective Arthur Kirkland story. Although I was only able to publish one chapter on Quizilla, a fan fiction website that has since shut down, I never really gave up on the story and always thought of new concepts and ideas to incorporate. Fast forward almost 10 years, here I am writing the story again!
> 
> Happy New Years, and I hope you enjoy reading this chapter!

Oddly enough, despite waking up at three in the afternoon and getting almost twelve hours of sleep, I still felt completely restless, as if I never received any sleep in the first place. I tried everything to get myself sleeping again: changing sleeping positions, cuddling my pillow, and even burying my head underneath more pillows. I had no idea what was wrong but it was pretty obvious that my efforts weren’t working, so I eventually came to the decision to get up from bed. It was daytime after all, and perhaps I would feel the need to return to rest after I have burnt off some energy. I was curious whether the police officers were still posted outside my flat as well.

Pushing myself off my bed, I sat up right and slipped my feet into a pair of soft slippers when I noticed a red object in the corner of my eye. I looked at it, still waking up from the sleepy daze I was in, and eventually remembered what it was and where it came from. It was the red flower from the night before. I vaguely remembered I placed it in a cup of water after trimming the stem after accidentally damaging it from holding it too tightly when Mr. Kirkland did his “inspection” in my flat. Though it was much shorter than it was when I found it, the flower still seemed to be bright in color, some red reflecting off onto the glass around it. I was pleasantly surprised to find it had completely survived the night, since I was never one to have a green thumb.

Though I was still in my sleeping garments, I ventured out to the window in my bedroom, hoping to find one of the policemen still guarding the front door. It was New Year’s day and I assumed most people would be at home, sheltering themselves from the cold and celebrating, but that wasn't the case. Drawing the curtains back, I was presented with a busy street, cars and pedestrians littering the pathways that came across my view. There was leftover snow from the day before, hiding in the small corners of walls, curbs, and walkways of the street, melting in the bright sunny day.

Though the day seemed to be full of delight for the residents of London, the shadows held a dark secret, naked to the blind eye. In the labyrinth of cobblestone streets, towering buildings and cold, bitter air sheltered a murderous entity, waiting for the opportune time to strike. It was death, the predator, waiting for its prey in the perfectly camouflaged setting of ordinary London. 

It was odd. I used to see London as the perfect place to live. But now… its changed. How could such a short message on a small piece of paper quake my entire being with fear? After thinking about it for a moment, looking at the situation through that perspective does make it all seem silly, doesn’t it? Was there even a serious threat to begin with? It could have been a meaningless threat. Perhaps I was being too paranoid. Afterall, it is not like anything could happen, not when there's police officers present to protect me.

After my long train of thoughts, I found myself peering through my bedroom window once once again, scanning the small plot of land that laid in front of my home. It didn't take long for my eyes to set on a man in uniform right where I last saw him, almost as if he did not move in the first place. He stood in front of my front door, bundled up in a large coat and scarf. The other two officers were missing, however, probably patrolling the other areas like Mr. Kirkland had instructed them to. 

The feeling of guilt twisted my stomach as I watched the man rub his hands together in an attempt to warm himself up. I was never told the officers’ rotation schedules, but I could easily tell he stood in the cold for hours, all while I slept and kept warm and cozy. The feeling deepened as I realized the worst part about it was that it was all for my sake, to protect me from a killer that might not be pursuing me in the first place. 

The heavy weight of remorse lingered as I turned from the window, retreating from the view of London. 

~

Katherine Turner, aged forty-seven, owned and operated the Kay Boutique, located near the heart of London for approximately sixteen years. She was unmarried but did find herself to be quite the social butterfly when it came to parties. With the help of her father’s fortune passed down to her when he died of pneumonia, she was able to open a second location in Twickenham, but due to the lack of customer demand, the store was forced to close after two years of opening. According to some testimonies, Ms. Turner was a well behaved woman, most knowing her as one extremely devoted to God. She however did find trouble with the British government when it was revealed she was holding back a few more pounds than she should have when it came to paying the sales tax accumulated from her store each year. In short, she was a decent woman. No obvious reasons why anyone would want her murdered.

But someone wanted her dead. Someone carefully planned that night with utmost precision. It wasn’t a spur of the moment decision for the killer to enter the boutique at night. He had clear intentions to brutally execute Ms. Turner in the most vile manner possible. Though it appears she had no enemies during her time alive, someone carried deep hatred towards her, wanting her to suffer in her very last moments. 

Now the question remains: who killed her? Who couldn’t stand having Ms. Turner alive? Who raped and murdered her in her own store? And lastly, who didn’t want to get caught at all costs, resorting to using Elizabeth Wilshire's life as a negotiating pawn?

There were no shortcuts when it came to solving murder cases. Each step had to be tended to before the next one can be revealed. 

All criminals are the same: sloppy, careless, and, most importantly, neglectful. Case after case, mystery after mystery, Arthur Kirkland, the most distinguished inspector in London, found that each of the accused left some piece of evidence, some intentional and others unintentional. This case is no different. The criminal did leave behind critical clues, the shoe print, the fabric, and DNA left on the victim's body, all essential for the identification of the criminal.

After a brief moment of rest and a deep breath, Arthur began the long process of analysing each piece of evidence. 

He started on the shoe print Ms. Willshire discovered at the crime scene. Though the shoe print was partly visible, he could tell the shoe was brand new, the sole not as worn down as a commonly used shoe. The sole’s pattern was checkered in an almost unique way, gaps wider throughout the base, which separates it from most worn shoes in London. Lastly, with the uniqueness of the shoe, he could assess the shoe was not from a factory, but hand made, most likely from a shop in London based on the lack of scuff marks. 

Next the ripped fabric found on the broken window was to be analyzed. Observing the frays and strands of the material under a microscope, Arthur confirmed it was a fabric he was very familiar with. 70% cotton, 25% linen, and 5% silk, the material was usually used for dress shirts, of the cheaper quality to be specific. They are common throughout London, and widely purchased by many who cannot afford a more luxurious and sturdy material.

Various pieces of evidence were left on the body, but the most promising was the DNA left on the victim's body which was collected by a simple swipe of a cotton swab at the vaginal cavity. Placing the sample on a petri dish and sliding it under a microscope, Arthur Kirkland observed the mix of blood, sperm, and sweat intently.

“Oh…?”

His thick eyebrows furrowed. Adjusting the microscope, he dove in for a closer look.

“Well that just made everything more interesting…” he sighed, leaning back into his chair, a ghost of a smile on his face.

~

Mr. Kirkland wa a cruel, cruel man.

Though he was no longer in the vicinity of my flat, he was still everywhere, haunting and following me wherever I go. From the rolling dust bunnies in the nook and crannies in my home to the many romance novels jammed in my windowsills, Mr. Kirkland was there, his comments aggressively proding my mind.  

Before I knew it, I began exploring my home. Walking through my flat, I was reminded of the many rude comments he made the night before, his mark invisible but very much so there. So what if I have a few soiled dishes in my sink? So what if there are case files randomly strewn about? So what if there is a layer of dust covering all of my unused furniture and items? I never had the need to invite company over or ever had the urge to impress anyone with my abode, so I didn’t think I would need to constantly and routinely tidy things up. I was quite content with the way I lived.

But his comments still echoed in my mind. My stomach knotted in discomfort and embarrassment spread within me the more I became lost thinking about it. I’ve always abhorred the idea of him successfully getting under my skin, but after working with him for two years, he unfortunately became remarkably skilled at it. I hated admitting defeat, but…  if I was going to be honest with myself,  _ I guess _ it wouldn’t hurt to tidy things up for once. I had plenty of time and a lot of energy to burn off after my long, restless nap after all. 

With newfound energy and motivation, I immediately marched straight to my living room with a spring in my step. I stopped in front of my phonograph in the corner of the room and it was clear to see a thick layer of dust covering the record I last used. Picking it up, I took in a deep breath and blew most of the dust off, uncovering the title of the record.  _ “With You Here and Me Here” by Jack Jackson and his Orchestra _ , it read. 

Shrugging, I cleaned the record a bit further and placed it on my phonograph, playing the record.

After a brief moment of scratching noises, the sound of trumpets, bass, and a soothing voice, accompanied with a light beat of drums immediately filled my ears and my flat. Unknowingly, I smiled. It had been a while since I had the pleasure of listening to music. The change of atmosphere was very comforting and very much needed. 

Turning around, I faced my dirty living room once more and began to clean.

 

_ “Living alone is a dull recreation, _

_ That would I owe to my inclination, _

_ I’ve never known where to find salvation ‘till today. _

_ Never before such a thrill I have tasted, _

_ Now I deplore the years I’ve wasted, _

_ Who, could bring this about but you? _

 

_ You here, and me here, _

_ It is paradise to be here. _

_ With you here, how could I ever ask for more? _

_ This new thrill, you’re giving, _

_ Is all my desire for living. _

_ With you here, I’m learning now what life is for!” _

 

Surprisingly, though I had spent almost three and a half hours cleaning, it certainly didn’t feel like I spent all that time! Perhaps it was because I enjoyed singing along to the various, lively big band songs or maybe it was because I found exploring my old things very satisfying, but the time did feel like it flew by.

However, now that my flat was cleaned, I became undeniably filthy. My hair that was once tied up in a neat bun had many stray hairs sticking up from my head and covering my face and I didn’t even need a mirror to see the dust and grime covering my nose. I’m not going to mention the sweat that accumulated under my clothes either. 

I was in need of a nice, relaxing, hot bath and fast.

I turned on the hot water to my bathtub and left it running as I left my bathroom. Walking into my bedroom, I looked for an extra change of clothes in my closet, settling on a soft lavender buttoned pajama set I rarely wore. I never favored sleep wear with collars or loose leggings and sleeves, but because it was in the middle of winter, I really could use the extra layer of clothing when I sleep. After snatching some undergarments and a clean, fluffy bath towel, I turned my bedroom lights off and left for the bathroom to begin my bath.

Dipping my fingers in the bathwater, I tested how hot it felt against my skin. It was warm, a little too warm for my liking, but with how cold the room was getting, the water would adjust just fine after a few moments. After stripping my buttoned blouse, my long skirt, and the rest of the articles of clothing I wore, I carefully climbed into the bathtub, slowly dipping one leg in one by one. I exhaled in delight as I settled myself in the tub. It felt nice. 

I didn’t think any good would come out of being confided in my flat for days as an unknown murderer pinned me as their next target, but having the extra time to pamper myself and do some self-care surely is a nice perk. 

 

Chime! Chime! Chime! ...

I woke up to my grandfather clock ringing eight times in total. Coming to my senses, I realized I fell asleep in the bath and stayed there way longer than I intended. The water grew so cold that goosebumps appeared on my arms as well as my legs. If I stayed any longer, I would probably get sick and the last thing I needed was another reason for me to stress out.  

Standing up, I immediately snatched my towel and wrapped it around my exposed body as I gradually adjusted to the excruciating freezing air in my bathroom. Pulling the stopper from the drain, the soft sound of water gurgling filled the small room as I stepped out of the tub. I dressed myself with the lavender pajamas and undergarments I had set aside. Subsequently tossing the soiled towel and my worn clothes into the hamper in the corner of the bathroom, I stepped into the hallway, flicking the lights off before closing the door. 

The hallway was completely dark and even more freezing compared to the small bathroom. The cold, bitter air stung my exposed, slightly damp skin as I stood there, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I wrapped my arms around myself, attempting to control how much I was starting to shiver, but it was practically no use. It was too damn cold. 

Squinting, I caught the outline of the doorframe. I took a few steps forward, dragging my hand on the icy wall to keep my sense of direction. Step by step, the wooden floorboards screeched and creaked under my feet with every movement I made. The floor was too damn cold too. My toes were going to become frostbitten and fall off at this rate. 

I arrived at my bedroom, and strangely… it was even colder. At this point I was fully shivering, my teeth very close to chattering. Bringing my hands close to my mouth and breathing hot air onto my hands, I looked around my dark bedroom for the source. A slight breeze caught my attention.

Hm? That’s odd. When I leave my window open?

Though it was dark outside, I could see a slurry of snow falling, some making its way into my bedroom through the open window. I took a few steps toward my window, ready to close it but froze when the realization hit me. 

…

My window was open. 

 

Then I heard the slight rugged breathing behind me. 


End file.
